


Conductor of Light

by jellyfishandtuna



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death, Character Relationships, Dark Sherlock, Drug Use, Emotional Conflict, Emotional pain, Gen, Guilt, Hurt and comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Marriage, Pain, Self Confidence Issues, Self Loathing, Sex, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn, emotional scars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 11:47:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1265374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellyfishandtuna/pseuds/jellyfishandtuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The definition of a Peacock is a male pea-fowl, which has very long tail feathers that have eye-like markings and that can be erected and expanded in display like a fan.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Peacock

**Author's Note:**

> "The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street."

It's a lot like breathing or so I have always been told. Breathing is boring. The click of a pocket magnifying glass and my mind deduces what happens in mere seconds. I'm a high functioning sociopath. Although; Freak, Psychopath and several other less than nice names have been thrown into the mix. I know that I am a difficult man. I don't need other's to tell me this nor to tell me that I am arrogant, self centered and selfish or the most brilliant idiot you will ever meet. I'm cold to emotions and feelings in general. I don't like being touched unless you have been given permission and I take coffee black with two sugars. 

The definition of a peacock is a male pea-fowl, which has very long tail feathers that have eye-like marking and that can be erected and expanded in display like a fan. 

Or.

One whom displays oneself ostentatiously; to strut like a peacock. 

Rarely do I strut but I do suppose, to a certain degree, to puff up when I feel threatened and therefore need to deduce my threat until they are nothing more then just an opened mouth, standing mass unable to move a finger. It's a talent. One that I began to mold when I was still a small child. 

I've never really had much going for me, other than the intelligence. Most would call me a handsome bloke, one that looks as if he'd been touched by the angels. That would be Mummy. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I've rarely looked close enough to judge. If it doesn't have to deal with the Work than everything else is mere rubbish. I'm not a beautiful nor handsome individual and the statement is usually met with an annoyed eye roll and a huff of air. 

I've been told that my piercing pale blueish green iris' and high cheekbones are what makes me mysterious, dare I say, handsome. 

"Late 30's. She didn't die here. There's no blood, no indication of a struggle. Whoever killed her knew her. Clothes are wet but it hasn't been raining... at least not here." 

Mobile in hand as I start checking on weather conditions around England. Checking on the airport scheduling and other resources that I have saved on this small but important device.

"Left handed. Married but not faithfully. There's discolored bruising around the collarbone suggesting that her and her lover or husband had a domestic before the business trip. He didn't want her to leave but she had too, or didn't." 

Twisting around, the Belstaff looking like a cape. This warehouse smells like brick dust and mold. 

"But how do you know this isn't where she died?" 

Anderson is an interesting individual. Doesn't want to be married to his wife. Didn't feel affection toward her from the start but it was a marriage of necessity. Thus the reasons that he and Sally are sneaking around the office. His voice puts me off to the point that I don't even wish to look upon that rat shaped face and a growl of frustration escapes my lips.

"There's no blood around her body. It's obvious, really. Wound is centered to the rib cage. This woman didn't even get to put up a struggle before she died. It was completely by surprise. The attacker wanted it to look at if she was being mugged but if you observe; purse is still around her shoulders, all manner of credit cards and money haven't been removed, thus warranting that it wasn't money that they were after. No, she's a lush little thing. In the five years that she has been married, several different lovers and apparently one of them became quite jealous. Possibility wanting her to leave the husband but he's most likely rich and she wouldn't have it."

"Stop guessing, Sherlock." It's Lestrade that chimes in. In all honestly, if it wasn't for this man that now glared at me with his hands crossed over his chest, I would most likely be dead. In some drug den in the lower end of London with drool dripping down my chin. Fingers lace together, index digits tap my lips as my mind seems to race full speed ahead.

"Isn't guess work to see an unhappy marriage. Engagement ring is always on, you can tell that by the pale skin that lies underneath. Tan lines around the mark. The band however has several different scratches. The inside clean but the outside isn't shiny. She doesn't have on any other jewelry so it's hard to tell if it's cleaned by wrestling it back and forth from her finger or when she washes her hands." 

"She's from Ireland. Here for a business trip." Walking toward Lestrade with that child like sparkle in my eye. "Text me with further details when you find out who she is, Graham."

"It's Greg, Sherlock." The man sighs and once again, I feel my eyes roll. Of course I know his name. I've know him for the better part of my adult life. I like causing him stress. 

"Tell Mycroft I said hello and I would greatly appreciate if the surveillance on my flat were stopped. Everyone needs their privacy." 

I storm pass before he even get's the chance to speak. Several of his officers whispering behind me. I don't even have to deduce what the conversation consists of. I already know.

\-----------

"John Watson!" There was a pain that coursed thought his shoulder as the slap hit. Not letting the heavy set man with glasses see his wince before a fake smile crossed his hips. Rolling his shoulder once Mike sat in front of him. The pub wasn't noisy this time of day. Not many people seemed to drink unless football was on the telly.

"When did you get back in town?"

Mike rose his hand, signaling that he wanted a pint. John waited for a moment, gathering his thoughts before speaking. "Couple of months. Nothing really note worthy, I suppose." Mike just chuckled as the beer was placed in front of him. "Are you joking? Mate, you're a hero. All the papers. Your name, big bold letters. "John Hamish Watson." Mike couldn't hide that ear to ear smile on his face. 

"Well, I don't feel like a hero." The ache in his shoulder was screaming at him for attention and he sighed it off. John Watson was a very skilled doctor, an ex-solider that was wounded and sent home. That didn't stop the dreams, nothing he believed would ever stop the dreams. Taking the last sip of beer, John gave a faint smile. "I feel old and worn." 

"That happens to the best of us, mate." Glancing at his watch, John moved down, grabbing the cane that was propped against the window. Mike gave him a sympathetic look and John hated it. "It was good seeing you, Mike." He tapped the table and limped out the door, leaving the payment under the glass.

John wasn't going to lie, having one drink before the sessions seemed to take the edge off. After the third failed attempt to hail a cab, he felt that walking was better suited. Would help him to gather his thoughts before being drilled about his past. A past he didn't want to forget but held details he didn't want to remember either. Stopping once he realizes that he's walked the five blocks, it didn't seem the distance he once remembered. Maybe it was the alcohol. With a heavy sigh, he pulls on the door and walks in.

\----------

"Would you call me a hard man to live with?"

My eyes never leave the glow of the microscope. I know Mike is there. I smelled his cologne long before he entered the room and my question seems to have caused him pause. "Don't know, never lived with you." A sass grin. Sighing in annoyance, my eyes still scanning the contents of the slide. Molly brings coffee, for the moment I ignore her. She has a crush, a fleeting human error attraction to me. I don't really blame her. I would to. Mike likes her but she's to star stuck to notice. 

"You have friends." Of course I am stating the obvious. Removing the slide and documenting the data before another replaced it. My slender fingers, some would call them bony, working at the knobs. "Yes, I do. Would you like me to ask around?" Mike's question is so painfully simple. I don't reply to him, more like let him make his own deductions on the matter. He just nods, picking up several of the papers he'd left from earlier. 

"I'm ask around." He leaves and for once I am thankful for the silence. The soft humming of the lights and my mind can once again focus on the Work.

\----------

"How's the blog going?" John is so uncomfortable that his palms sweat. Hands clenched against the arm rests of this uncomfortable chair. 'It isn't.' That's what he wants to say. There is nothing more depressing then staring at a blank word document. More like having it stare at you. "Yeah, good." He pauses for a brief moment. "Very good." John lies. Hopefully Ella won't catch it but he's only kidding himself. Deep down anyway. Still she folds her arms over her clipboard and smiles. "You haven't written a word have you?" Ella writes something down.

John doesn't answer for awhile, just staring at that one small sentence that seems to scream volumes of silent words at him. "You wrote 'Still has trust issues." Brown eyes look at him questioning and he feels like his skin is being ripped apart. Trust issues. What does that even mean? Ella smiles.

"And you read my writing upside down. John?" She let's out a defeated sigh. "You're a solider. It's going to take awhile to adjust to civilian life. And." Another pause. God woman just spit it out! "Writing a blog about everything that happened to you will honestly help." 

He has to swallow the bile that burns the back of his throat before speaking. "Nothing ever happens to me." It was an honest answer. Since coming home. Nothing. Ella just gives him a sympathetic smile. Reminding him of the one that Mike gave him before he left the pub and it makes him sick to stomach. 

The sun may be shinning but the air holds a chill to it. Walking through the small garden that's between himself and his room. Glancing down to notice that Mike is sitting on one of the benches, crossword puzzle from the paper in hand, hoping against hope that he doesn't look up and see him. To late. It's uncomfortable for John to say the least and he hates talking about his past. 

"Come on. I want you to meet someone. He's actually looking for a flatmate and to be honest, I think the two of you could do the other some good. What could it hurt, right?" 

John arches a brow, the hand that was once holding a warm cup of coffee twists. Switching hands and flexing the fingers hoping that Mike doesn't see. Of could he does and John just sighs. 38 years old and he feels ancient and used.

\----------

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

It didn't register that my voice had come out as soft as it did. I never do that. My fingers working fast on the borrowed mobile. It took all of two seconds to deduce this man. He was hiding the pain well from everyone else. Such a strong mask for someone that's been through so much and yet... He wasn't someone to take lightly. I suppressed the urge to touch his fingers when I reached the device back to him. Mike just looking between the two of us with a cocky grin. 

The rest of the painful conversation was nothing more than a blur. John seeming a bit put off at the aspect of complete stranger would wish to be flat mates but I was in dire straights. Was that even the right thinking? Lonely. I flinch at the word that floats across my mind along with the sentiment that's attached to it. Lost in their little conversation it gives me a chance to replace the mask before I look upon John. There's something painful behind those blue eyes. Something that needed healed and before I can even understand it, I've deduced him once again down to his shoes. 

"Is that it?" There was a puzzlement in that voice that sent a shiver down my spine. My brow arches as I wrap my scarf around my neck. "Is that what?" 

"We've only just met. We're going to go and look at a flat?" God why was Mike still here! That Cheshire cat grin on his lips. "Problem?" I walk past him, taking a moment to sniff the air. His cologne was interesting. Soft, barely there. I reach for the door. "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name." 

Oh John! You are so much more than you let on. I pause, turning around and move to stand in front of him. Trying to loose that edge in my voice that I use with everyone else. I clear my throat and stare into those captivating blue eyes. 

I inhale.

"I know you're an Army doctor, and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother worried about you, but you won't go to him for help, because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife, and I know your therapist think's your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid." 

I inhale sharply and the air burns my lungs. Gingerly taking a few steps towards this sandy blonde haired man, hands clasped behind my back. My baritone voice even lower as I whisper in his ear. "That's enough to be going with, don't you think?"

All the poor man can do is nod, words fail him. I couldn't even imagine what he would think when I'm not so nice with my deductions. And that was half-assed on my part. I step quickly backwards and toward the door, half way out before my head pops back in. 

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker street." I give him my signature wink followed by a smirk. "Afternoon." 

I stop just outside the door to hear Mike and John's conversation. Bracing my back against the wall as air passes into my constricted lungs and pounding heart. I finally feel my legs gathering strength and I make my way down the hall. Surprisingly, there is already a door in my mind palace. John Watson the name in gold letters and it's an interesting contrast to the plain brown door. This was going to be very interesting indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short for a reason. Conveying some mixed emotions and the boys helping once another out. It happens a few months after they've moved in with one another.

He's pacing. God help me.

"Sherlock?"

Now he's pacing and mumbling incoherently. If someone would have warned me months ago that the man I's fall in love with was a nutter... I might not have believed them. 

"Sherlock?"

"Oh god!" 

He's a little dramatic. Hands tangled tight in those dark curls as his knees buckle and Sherlock Holmes falls to the floor. That's gonna bruise those bony knees later. I've learned not to panic when he does that. The first time it scared the shit out of me. 

"Alright." 

I rise from my chair. Paper placed on the seat before walking over to him. Kneeling in front of him, if there's one thing I've learned about Holmes, he hates being touched without permission. Tense shoulders, his hands in a death grip in his hand. 

"It's alright, Sherlock."

"Make it stop!" A snap. Not a command. He's pleading. This man has one of the most brilliant minds I've ever seen and yet my touch can calm him in an instant and make the noise go away.

"It's okay. I'm going to touch you, okay, Sherlock." 

A small nod. My hands rise to cup his face, thumbs running gently over those high cheekbones. This attack hit him harder then the last. Sherlock tenses at the contact. 

"Breathe for me Sherlock. It's just John."

He exhales and it smells like tea and cigarettes but I've learned not to mind. Fingers trailing up his face, still cupped but now, my thumb's were applying gentle pressure to his temples. Sherlock starts to relax but his eyes remain closed. 

"What happened?"

He puts up a good front. To everyone that he comes in contact with, this man, is a brick wall. Unforgiving and unyielding but he's putty in my hand. 

"I'm... I'm..."

Sherlock's breathe was hitching in his chest. I can tell there's a lump in his throat. He's struggling for words. I never stop the gentle touches, reassuring him that I'm there. I'm not going to leave. His past is such a mystery. And I'm painfully patient. 

"Breathe. Deep inhale, slow exhale. Was it Anderson?"

It took mere seconds for the question to register but when it did, Sherlock's eyes shot open and stared into mine. Pure fury clouded those pale bluish-grey hues. 

"The man is an idiot. Does it to show me up. Make me look like a fool."

Sherlock's eyes never leaving my own. Hands still locked in his dark curls. My hands travel north before grabbing them, lacing his fingers with my own. He doesn't fight as our hands fall to the side. This grip tighten. 

"One small detail. One little mistake and he makes me out to be stupid. I'm not an idiot!" 

My thumbs smooth over his knuckles. One small soothing motion and his shoulders un-tense and slump over. 

"Sherlock, you are the most intelligent person I know. Bloody brilliant. Don't let one person dictate your self worth when you have people that believe in you."

The torrent running through that troubled mind of his seemed to calm. Even Mycroft was amazed at the calming effect that I had over this man. 

"He's done it since Uni, John. It's hand to displace."

"This coming from the man that deleted how to love, feel emotions."

Risking it, one hand leaves Sherlock's right embrace to brush the hair away from his forehead. 

"Somethings aren't worth forgetting."

There was a smile, however smile, that flashed his face.

"Clear now, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Alright, off the floor, you daft sod. I'll make us some tea."

\----------

The nightmares for the most part had stopped, at least they both believed. It was the one time that John was the most vulnerable, unaware of his surroundings. Being mad as hell when the muffled sounds of his violin would wake him at 3 in the morning. Stopping when Sherlock was sure he was awake.

A week in and John already wanted to kill his flat mate. 

One night, the music wasn't helping. John continued to scream out. It was possibly the worse one he'd had. Having to shoot a cabbie most likely didn't help. With a gentle knock on John's door, it slowly opened. 

"John."

He was twisting and turning on the bed. Duvet and sheets wrapped tight around his frame. Sherlock was at a loss on what to do. He's read about the effects of PTSD but to see what it did first hand, to his friend. 

The mattress gives with weight. Laying on his side on the twin bed. 

"John, it's okay. You're safe." 

Sherlock hesitates, reaching before he swallows and gently touches John's forehead. The doctor is quick, curling up to Sherlock's chest. Hand gripping the silk that covers Sherlock's torso. Still breathing hard. 

"Make it stop." The sentence spoken through gritted teeth. "Please, make it stop. Blood. Bullets. They are dying and I can't save them all." A broken sob takes Sherlock back a bit. John never cries. He's to strong and proud for tears. Sherlock's mind is racing with what to do. 

He risks it.

Fingers start to run through sandy blonde hair, an arm wraps tight around John's waist, pulling him close. 

"You're safe. You're at Baker St. right now wrapped tight. I won't let anything happen to you, John. You have my word." 

This seems to relax his tense muscles. Breathing seems to slow a bit.

"I've got you." That's when Sherlock's lips gently touch John's forehead. 

It's a whimper that escapes John's lips before the first tear falls. 

"It just... hurts. No one understands."

Sherlock didn't even know when his fingers started trailing circles on the small of John's back.

"Help me understand. Help me take away the pain."

John nods, exhaling the breathe that he was holding.

\----------

The first kiss happened between the pool and the flat. John wanted to walk, get air into his lungs. Sherlock wanted to think. Moriarty had almost taken his John. His light. He didn't know what to do and how to feel. Didn't know how to gather his strength and tell John how he really felt. And they both supposed that's when it happened.

Sherlock takes John by the arm. The streets are quiet. No one is around. John's back is pressed against the brick wall and Sherlock rises his hand to cup his cheek. Nothing said between the two of them. Just staring into one another eyes. It took less then a second for Sherlock to lower his head and capture John's lips with his own. It was soft, slow and filled with so many emotions that neither man could say out loud. They seem to melt against one another before the kiss deepens. 

Tongue, twist and taste and a moan escapes John's lips. Sherlock's arms lock around his waist as John's lock around his neck. Still letting the kiss convey all the emotions. All the love and all the fear.

It's their first kiss but it won't be the last. It's the start of something new... for both of them.


End file.
